Love Poems and Others/Cruelty and Love
CRUELTY AND LOVE
What large, dark hands are those at the windowLifted, grasping the golden lightWhich weaves its way through the creeper leaves To my heart’s delight?
Ah, only the leaves! But in the west,In the west I see a redness comeOver the evening’s burning breast— —’Tis the wound of love goes home!
The woodbine creeps abroad Calling low to her lover: The sun-lit flirt who all the day Has poised above her lips in play And stolen kisses, shallow and gay Of pollen, now has gone away —She woos the moth with her sweet, low word, And when above her his broad wings hover Then her bright breast she will uncover And yield her honey-drop to her lover.
Into the yellow, evening glow Saunters a man from the farm below, Leans, and looks in at the low-built shed Where hangs the swallow’s marriage bed. The bird lies warm against the wall. She glances quick her startled eyes Towards him, then she turns away Her small head, making warm display Of red upon the throat. His terrors sway Her out of the nest’s warm, busy ball, Whose plaintive cry is heard as she flies In one blue stoop from out the sties Into the evening’s empty hall.
Oh, water-hen, beside the rushesHide your quaint, unfading blushes,Still your quick tail, and lie as dead,Till the distance folds over his ominous tread.
The rabbit presses back her ears,Turns back her liquid, anguished eyesAnd crouches low: then with wild springSpurts from the terror of his oncomingTo be choked back, the wire ringHer frantic effort throttling: Piteous brown ball of quivering fears!
Ah soon in his large, hard hands she dies,And swings all loose to the swing of his walk.Yet calm and kindly are his eyesAnd ready to open in brown surpriseShould I not answer to his talkOr should he my tears surmise.
I hear his hand on the latch, and rise from my chairWatching the door open: he flashes bareHis strong teeth in a smile, and flashes his eyesIn a smile like triumph upon me; then careless-wiseHe flings the rabbit soft on the table boardAnd comes towards me: ah, the uplifted sword Of his hand against my bosom, and oh, the broadBlade of his hand that raises my face to applaudHis coming: he raises up my face to himAnd caresses my mouth with his fingers, which still smell grimOf the rabbit’s fur! God, I am caught in a snare!I know not what fine wire is round my throat,I only know I let him finger thereMy pulse of life, letting him nose like a stoatWho sniffs with joy before he drinks the blood:And down his mouth comes to my mouth, and downHis dark bright eyes descend like a fiery hoodUpon my mind: his mouth meets mine, and a floodOf sweet fire sweeps across me, so I drownWithin him, die, and find death good.